


I asked you

by Nina36



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grieving John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, first person POV, post trf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2485358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grief is not the big moment, grief is every heartbeat and breath after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I asked you

**Author's Note:**

> A/N I don't even know...I angsted, I guess.

I asked for one more miracle.

I asked for time to rewind itself to eighteen months ago.

I prayed – not to God, not to the benign old bloke in a white robe and long beard.

I do not believe in fairytales. I believed in you. I still do.

I prayed you, knelt at your altar of broken bones, invoking your name.

I asked for a do over; for my name on your lips, for moonless nights and chases through town.

I asked for the echo of our laughter to be made real again.

I asked for a miracle: to have the words I said taken back, to change them into something that might have stopped you.

I asked for your voice, your skin, your eyes.

I dreamt in vivid colors; your name stuck in my throat, my eyes burning, my hands clenching on the sheets waking up.

I punched walls, my blood bright red, but somehow yours was brighter on the pavement. I drank, bitter taste in the back of my throat, your ghost everywhere, in every shadow, in the blue robe still on your bed, in random music coming from the street, in whispers I heard in the dark.

You. It's always you whispering my name. Like a secret, like you never did, would...could.

I asked for one more miracle.

You were the first one and the other 539 that followed. Yes, I counted them all.

I called your name, over and over, held your phone in my hand; cracked screen, cracked reality, one where all you are: skin, bones, brain and heart is six feet under, a closed casket, green tender grass, a black headstone, flowers on Sundays. Do you even like flowers?

I asked you...not to be dead.

I cried – and at first it didn't even seem real. _You_ were real.

You. Were. Real. My reality, my best friend -- _mine._

 I traced your handwriting on a scrap of paper with my fingers, folded the paper and now I keep it in my wallet.

I asked you not to be dead. For me.

Come back to me, Sherlock. I know you can; you can do everything.

You brought me back to life, why can’t you just do the same?

I asked – but I never told you. I barely knew it myself. Now I know, because my dreams are red with everything: your blood, my blood, life, love and death. I asked and begged, like a child. But we are not children, Sherlock.

I asked – and I never told you. I am telling it now, I am telling you. I repeat it to the shadows haunting me, to the empty chair in front of me in our sitting room, to my heart – all filled with you.

Stop being dead, so that I can tell you.

How is that for a bargain?

Just – stop it, please! My heart is broken, there is still an open book on the table, your mug in the sink, a slice of cake in the fridge, your wallet, keys and watch in a plastic bag.

It doesn’t make sense because I hear you; you whisper my name before I open my eyes, your smell still lingers in the air. You are in the silence -- but you've never been silent, too larger than life itself to be silent even when you didn't speak. See? It does not compute.

I asked you for one more miracle because hearts cannot break within a heartbeat, blood can’t be that red, that vibrant, that thick – without you in the world.

I will be waiting. I will breathe, I promise, I will tell you, every day, until I can tell you face to face.

You just need to come back. You just need to stop being _dead._

For me, Sherlock.

For us.

\- fin


End file.
